Paper Faces on Parade
by Elven Ink
Summary: **COMPLETE** The year is 1881, and the demon Crowley hears tales of an angel in Paris. Meanwhile, the angel Aziraphale hears stories about a demonic creature lurking under the Palais Garnier. Both attempt to subtly investigate.


**AN: I was so pleased when cliopadra over on Tumblr gave me permission to write a little drabble for their amazing Good Omens masquerade comic.**

**Originally posted on my Tumblr. **

* * *

Paris wasn't one of Crowley's favourite cities. After all, not long had passed for the demon since he had last been here to prevent its citizens from removing the head of his favourite angel. He didn't mind admitting that Aziraphale was his favourite angel — it was a simple enough fact. Every other angel he'd met had been a fully-qualified, grade-A wanker. Aziraphale, on the other hand, achieved a solid 'tolerable' on Crowley's scale of angel preferences. He would go so far as begrudgingly admitting that Aziraphale was rather good company at times. Thus, he was Crowley's favourite angel.

However, Aziraphale was also Crowley's biggest pain in the backside. The heaven-sent clever idiot had an uncanny knack for attracting chaos and mayhem, as though dark forces simply couldn't resist toying with Aziraphale's inherent attempts to be good. Crowley didn't realise he himself was one such element of chaos and mayhem trailing along after Aziraphale, of course.

Still, the newspapers excitedly declaring the 'voice of an angel' among them and performing nightly at the Paris Opera House? Oh, that had Aziraphale written _all _over it, though the demon hadn't yet fathomed whether this newly-appeared soprano _was _Aziraphale, or if he'd taken the guise of the 'angel of music' that the swirling rumours had named the soprano's mysterious teacher as. Either would fit Aziraphale, but these public performances of vocal-miracles that left opera-goers fainting with joy were a concern.

It was just all a bit much. If Crowley didn't balance it out with a few temptations and acts of chaos, both Heaven and Hell would start to notice Paris becoming a beacon of miraculous activity every time a new production of _Hannibal _was in town.

* * *

Paris was not one of Aziraphale's favourite cities. After all, he had very nearly had the closest shave of his existence there. But, he supposed he could not, and should not, hold that grudge forever. The event in question had afforded him a lovely encounter with Crowley, who was most certainly Aziraphale's favourite demon. He was allowed to say that, of course. It wasn't sinful. All the other demons were awful, so to call Crowley his favourite demon was simply to observe that he wasn't quite as awful as the rest. Heaven couldn't tell him off with that logic in play.

Still, Crowley did test Aziraphale's desire to call him his favourite demon sometimes. This year had been one such time, as the angel heard awful tales from Paris regarding a demonic presence lurking beneath the Paris Opera House. This demon, this phantom, this _ghost_ had caused all sorts of troubles and misfortune for the people working at the opera house. From simple acts of inconvenience, to demanding money, to dropping an entire chandelier down to the stage mid-performance, this spectre seemed to be making quite the name for himself.

Aziraphale had grown concerned that such rapid acts of chaos would catch the attention of Heaven. If this was indeed a bored Crowley trying to while away a few years with entertainment, the least he could of done was alert Aziraphale so he could balance it out a bit with a few extra miracles in the area.

Aziraphale huffed to himself as he pocketed the flyer he'd miraculously come across. He must look on the bright side, (it was integral to being an angel, you see).

His investigations happily coincided with the Opera Garnier's much-lauded upcoming spectacle — the masquerade. As though Aziraphale needed an excuse to indulge in such opulence.

* * *

He _knew_ it. From the moment Crowley had stepped into the grand hallway of the Paris Opera House, he could smell Aziraphale. The angel was here, and Crowley had adopted a perfect disguise that he might catch the angel red-handed. Seriously, what kind of angel went looking for so much praise and adoration from _humans_?

The kind with a non-existent pool of self-esteem who didn't get any such praise and comfort where he was _supposed_ to receive it; from Heaven. Crowley silently knew this, but still, it was a dangerous move on Aziraphale's part. Crowley absently considered whether he ought to make more of an effort to open up a bit. They were a few thousand years acquainted now, and even had an Arrangement with a capital A. Maybe it couldn't hurt to warm up a little and make the angel feel a bit better about himself.

Serpentine eyes scanned behind two layers; both his darkened glasses and the feathered, soft-blue porcelain opera mask painted with numerous divine eyes that he held before his face. It made looking for anything twice as difficult as it needed to be, but as the excuse of contact lenses hadn't been invented yet, Crowley didn't have much choice. God had ensured that despite a demon's masterful shapeshifting skill, they could never alter their eyes. A little warning flag for the Almighty's beloved humans to cotton on to before they agreed to any demonic deal. How nice.

Dressed in white and gold tones, white feathers dripping over him and a sparkling golden halo clipped to his curled red locks, Crowley was quite sure his disguise was perfect. It was the last thing Aziraphale would expect Crowley to dress in, surely. Why, Aziraphale could look right at him and not realised it was him, Crowley was certain.

The demon sauntered through the hall, slipping between crowds and dancing partners with ease. He passed a fellow dressed all in black and red, brandishing a wine glass in one hand and a great serpent-prop around his shoulders. Crowley smirked. The man had taste.

Crowley continued to slink through the room, noting Aziraphale's scent growing more distant as he did so. He had passed by him, Crowley realised, frowning a little. Odd. He could normally spot Aziraphale a mile away.

Gracefully, Crowley turned back on himself to pace across the room again, looking around a little more sharply. He passed the snake-costumed man again, before realisation hit him so squarely in the face that both he and the snake-costumed man jumped in unison.

"_Snake_?!" Crowley yelped, his last remaining dregs of sensibility leaking out of his ears and leaving him able to only bleat exactly what he saw.

Luckily, Aziraphale was afflicted with the same ailment. He pointed at Crowley from across the room, and exclaimed in reply:

"_Angel_?!"

Before they could continue their tirade of yelling out the obvious at each other, (Crowley had lined up such eloquence of verbatim as "Apple?!" and "_Tattoo_?!", but alas, some poetry is destined to remain unheard), the lights all went out and shrill screams filled the room. At the top of the grand stairway, a skull-faced figure swathed in red stood proudly, leering down at the silent crowd of masks beneath him.

Aziraphale shuffled over to Crowley's side, partly to speak to him, and partly to hide behind him a little. The skull mask was awfully unnerving. Crowley loved it.

"One of yours, I assume?" Aziraphale whispered as the Red Death began his descent. He certainly had Crowley's saunter.

"Not that I'm aware of. Like his hat though."

"If he's not one of yours, what are you _doing_ here?"

"Oh come off it, you _know_ why I'm here, angel! I'm here for _you!"_

Aziraphale blushed. Crowley noticed and immediately amended his utterance: "Not like _that_, you feathery git!"

"Feathery g—!" Aziraphale half-repeated the insult under hushed tones, unable to complete the echo but asserting his annoyance all the same. "_You _have feathers too, you-you-you scaly..._**fiend**__!"_

Crowley was flattered he'd tried.

"Look, you need to stop with the whole 'angel of music' thing, alright? Humans aren't ready for the voice of an angel, Aziraphale, you're making them all giddy. They're crowing about this soprano's heavenly voice halfway across the world," Crowley whispered to him, keeping an eye on the Red Death who was now speaking to the managers and a young woman. "You don't want Gabriel slapping your wrist for frivolous miracles again."

"What? I have done no such thing!" Aziraphale protested, his eyes also locked on the Red Death. "This angel of music malarky is all them." He gestured to the crowd with the head of the snake-prop he was holding. "Presumably to make themselves feel better after all _your _opera ghost nonsense! I mean _really_, Crowley, you could have _killed_ someone with that chandelier stunt of yours!"

"Mine? Angel, I wasn't even in _Paris_ when that happened! It wasn't me!"

"It wasn't?"

"No! Why would I skulk around an opera house for months on end anyway?! I don't even _**like**_ opera!"

Alas, Crowley's response had been poorly-timed, his last phrase landing in a pivotal moment of silence in the discussions between the Red Death, the managers, and the soprano. Everyone turned to look in horror at Crowley and Aziraphale.

Crowley lifted his mask slowly to his face with one hand, and pointed to Aziraphale with the other.

"He said it, not me."

"_Crowley!"_

All eyes burned in their direction, save the managers who were nodding a little meekly in agreement. But none were quite so hateful as the golden eyes set behind the skull-face mask of the Red Death. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers, though Crowley saw him step back to press a hidden button on the floor at his feet. He noticed too late, however, and the floor beneath Aziraphale and Crowley opened under them and sent the pair tumbling below…

* * *

Luckily, Crowley was not injured in the short fall. Unluckily, Aziraphale was. These two matters were the cause of each other, as Crowley landing on top of Aziraphale had meant no harm came to the demon, but the poor angel was now miracle-tending to two bruised ribs and a very sore back.

"By all the _wings _in Heaven, who arrives at an _opera _house known to be haunted by a violent _opera-loving spectre_, and declares he _doesn't __**like**__ opera_?" Aziraphale snapped, scowling at Crowley as he mended his own ribs and looked forlornly at the now-broken snake prop that was integral to his costume.

"I'm not much into music at all, to be honest. Still waiting for the humans to come up with something a little more—" Crowley physically grasped at the air, looking for the term 'rock' when it hadn't yet been equated to music yet. "—a little more..._fun._"

"Your friend is right then," came an impossibly-smooth voice that bounced all around them, making it source indiscernible. "You do not deserve to stand within these walls."

The angel and demon scrambled around, looking for whoever it was who had spoken. Slowly, light began to filter into the room, and to their surprise, it was filled with...countless Crowleys and Aziraphales staring back at them.

Crowley scoffed.

"Mirrors? Seriously? You lot used to put _loads_ of effort into trapping demons. You think _mirrors_ are a problem?"

"...Then by all means, monsieur — _**take your leave**__,_" the voice offered, sounding both amiable and threatening. It set Aziraphale's heart on edge, and he instinctively made to grab Crowley's arm.

"P-Perhaps you ought to simply apologise, my dear boy," he said, sweat beginning to bead across his brow. The temperature was creeping up around them, and the angel had an awful feeling that this room was not merely lined with mirrors.

"Come on, angel, we're _leaving_. It's easy, you just have to stick to the left wall, follow it along, you'll find the exit eventually. It's a maze, isn't it?" Crowley said with assurance. All around them, a deep chuckle rumbled to suggest that perhaps it wouldn't be so easy. Crowley scowled at it.

"Your friend is sensible. You ought to pay more attention to him..." the voice purred as Crowley began pawing along the mirrors to find a path out of the dizzying room.

"If you think Aziraphale is sensible, you really are off your rocker, mate," Crowley grumbled, before immediately feeling bad about it. It really _wasn't _Aziraphale's fault that they were in this mess. "Ah, sorry, ang—" Crowley looked over his shoulder to where he had thought the angel would be following him.

He wasn't there. Once again, the voice chuckled.

"As I said...you ought to pay more _attention!_"

Crowley spun around, darting back the way he had came.

"Angel? _Angel?_"

"I am no angel to you, monsieur," the voice finally had a face, as Crowley found Aziraphale caught by the neck by a tall, dark figure standing behind the angel. The opera ghost's eyes burned with restrained fury, pinning Crowley under a mismatched gaze from behind a white half-mask. Between his hands he held a length of catgut tight around Aziraphale's throat, with just enough give to let the writhing angel draw a ragged breath.

Crowley's lip curled, revealing sharp fangs as he growled:

"Unless you fancy becoming a real phantom, you'll let him go," Crowley warned.

The Phantom's expression did not move. But his hands did — the rope tightened, strangling a gargling cry from Aziraphale.

"Who _are_ you? To come here and speak ill of my work?" The Phantom asked lightly, as though they were discussing nothing more pressing than the weather. "I ought to have snapped your friend's neck before you had chance to turn to face me, sir, for the sins you have spoken."

Crowley pulled a face.

"What, the opera thing? Seriously? Mate, you _need_ to get out more if you're going to get this worked up over a little musical criticism." Still, it was true — this man could move faster than Crowley could reach Aziraphale. He could make the rope miraculously fall apart, but he wasn't convinced this madman wouldn't resort to a more hands-on approach to murder if pushed.

Crowley caught Aziraphale's eye. A silent plea for the angel to help himself out of this situation was duly rebuffed by an equally silent '_No-Crowley-I-won't-hurt-a-human_'.

The demon rolled his eyes. Classic Aziraphale. Luckily, he knew well how to tempt even this stubborn angel to uncharacteristic violence, if needed.

"Wait, it was _me_ who said opera was crap," Crowley pointed out, watching the Phantom visibly recoil from the crass summary. "So really, you ought to be enacting music-based vengeance on me, not my friend. He actually loves opera. Honestly, he does. Dragged me to see _Il Muto _once. I wish I'd the version where they made the leading lady croak like a frog, but apparently that was a one-off?"

"That...that was _my_ doing..."

"Oh really? Hey, nice touch. Y'know, opera would be much more my taste if it was a bit more _fun._"

Confusion radiated from both the Phantom and Aziraphale in equal measure.

"..._Fun?" _The Phantom repeated back, more than a little distaste in his tone. Aziraphale tried to shake his head at Crowley. If ever there was an audience for _fun_, it wasn't fans of opera. Opera was serious business.

"Yeah, you have to admit, it's all a bit intense really, isn't it? Like, who breaks out into song over the fact they woke up that morning, or cracks out a staggering crescendo because their husband porked their best friend?"

Crowley was quite sure he heard the Phantom choke on his own spit at that. He certainly pulled tighter on the lasso around Aziraphale's throat, and despite the half mask, Crowley could see the little that was exposed of the Phantom's face contorted with fury at his art being made light of in such a crass manner.

"Be assured that no one shall _break out into song _in grief of your passing," the Phantom spat back to Crowley.

The demon's face peeled into a fanged grin as he saw Aziraphale's eyes alight in response to the Phantom's threat to Crowley. Temptation accomplished.

No sooner had the Phantom loosened his grip on the rope to change his target than Aziraphale's wings burst forth from his back. The powerful limbs crashed into the man behind him, throwing the Phantom back with such force that he was lifted from his feet and hit the mirrored wall with an audible _crack!_ before landing on the floor in a tangle of limbs.

Immediately, Aziraphale began to panic.

"Oh! Oh no, I didn't mean to hurt him! I just meant to stop him reaching you...you don't think he's…?" Aziraphale fretted, hands wringing in front of him and wings twitching a little as he worried. He looked between the fallen Phantom and Crowley.

Crowley offered him a smirk.

"He's _fine_. He'll wake up with a great idea for an opera about an angel and a demon though."

Aziraphale's bottom lip jutted a little as he considered the fallen Phantom.

"I feel rather sorry for the poor fellow. Why do you think he lives down here?"

"I imagine it's his lack of people skills, angel."

"Yes, but _why_ is that? He must have had a hard life..."

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, blue eyes sparkling with worry and pleading in equal measure. As much as Crowley knew how to pull Aziraphale's strings, the angel knew very well how to coax the kindness out of this demon's heart too.

He sighed irritably.

"Oh fine, alright, he can have a little demonic miracle sometime. I'll keep an eye out and give him a free pass sometime. Happy?"

Aziraphale beamed.

"That's so very _kind_ of you, Crowley."

"I _will _leave you down here, angel, don't test me."

The angel offered him a withering look, before tapping his shoulder. His costume was lacking a certain something, and they could not return to the party half-dressed. Crowley rolled his eyes and his form rippled and coiled from his usual form into that of a large, black serpent. The demonic snake slithered around Aziraphale up to his shoulders, settling himself down across them like some bizarre feather boa.

"Perfect!" Aziraphale beamed. He then looked up to the ceiling. "...How do we get out of here again?"


End file.
